


can't fight you, can't fix you

by Maeve_of_Winter



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hockey Injuries, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Insecurity, Jealousy, Kent Parson works hard to be a good boyfriend, M/M, Major Character Injury, Misunderstandings, No Homophobia AU, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:34:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25720645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maeve_of_Winter/pseuds/Maeve_of_Winter
Summary: Kent Parson has two Stanley Cups. After the first one, he signed a deal to become the face of Harley-Davidson's latest ad campaign, and nearly every city in America was bombarded with billboards of a shirtless teenage Kent lounging on a motorcycle, staring out at his audience with bedroom eyes and a mischievous smirk.Kent Parson has two Olympic gold medals. After the second one, he got his own G.I. Joe action figure because they wanted the all-American boy to be embodied by the quintessential American toy.Tater has none of those things, but he does have a career that's hanging by a thread, a team that won the Stanley Cup without him, and a boyfriend who's trying his best, even if it's not working.Or, an AU Tater's knee injury during the Cup playoffs ends up being much more serious, and how he and Kent struggle to navigate the ensuing turmoil.
Relationships: Alexei "Tater" Mashkov/Kent "Parse" Parson, Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann
Comments: 34
Kudos: 105
Collections: Check Please Heartbreak Fest 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bigspicysenpai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigspicysenpai/gifts).



> Written for Alexei! I hope you enjoy this fic and that you find it a compelling exploration of Tater's character. 
> 
> A huge thanks to Li and cerulean_irene for helping me beta this fic! I couldn't have done it without you. And a big thank you to fallingfromthetrapeze as well, who helped me brainstorm this fic and then cheered me on.❤️ 
> 
> Note: _L'vionachik_ is a Russian term of affection that means "little lion." I thought it worked for Kent, so I used it as Tater's nickname for him here.
> 
> Also, since this is a homophobia-free AU, Jack and Bitty's Cup kiss happened, but it just considered a reveal of Jack and Bitty's relationship itself, not of either of their sexualities.
> 
> Lastly, this fic very frequently references (but does not endorse) stereotypes of Russian players in Canadian and US hockey culture. Please be aware in case this content is personally upsetting to you.

The Falcs had won the Cup, Jack had scored the winning goal, and Tater was doing his best to pretend he wasn’t utterly miserable.

Their Cup parade took place less than four days after their victory at game seven, and somehow it seemed like both too long and too short of a wait for Tater. He was grateful he could finally put in a token appearance celebrating the win while still managing to avoid the crowded bars and clubs the team was flocking to. 

At the same time, he dreaded being forced to see the excitement and elation on his teammates’ faces and constantly be reminded that he himself felt nothing of the kind. Part of the reason he’d fled Jack and Bitty’s apartment immediately after the final—despite Bitty’s pleas for him to stay—was because he knew he wouldn’t be able to withstand Bitty’s constant chatter on the subject and Jack’s quiet but evident pride.

But after game four had left multiple torn ligaments in his knees, with hope for recovery but no guarantee of one, it was difficult for Tater to be particularly cheerful. And as he dressed for the parade, careful to select light clothing for the blazing heat of the summer day, he was repeatedly reminded of his newfound difficulties in his daily routine, and he could feel a new surge of resentment for it.

Tater would never tell anyone he actually felt that way, of course. Commentators were already content to cast him as the selfish and showy Russian who focused on himself at the expense of his team. It was a frequent and favorite source of speculation about why he hadn’t been given the A after six seasons with the team while Jack gained it in a matter of months into his rookie year, and all of the reasons suggested were usually unflattering. Tater saw no need to feed into his negative press.

In fact, other than team management, there was only a single soul that he’d revealed the full extent of his injury to, and that was Kent. His boyfriend’s response had been reassuring, even if it was predictable. 

“We’ll figure this out,” Kent had promised him over a week ago. “We’re in this together. Hang in there, Alexei. I’ll be back on the East Coast as soon as PR lets me off the leash and I can wrap things up here.”

But that was Kent—someone who was willing to be present, who was willing to be there to try to make a situation better even if he didn’t know the right words to say. Tater took the promise to heart and tried to keep it in his mind at his lowest moments—and there had been plenty of them these past few days, especially when he made the mistake of scrolling through Instagram or Snapchat and was freshly reminded that he should be happy instead of lonely and miserable. But as the days went by, and Kent still didn’t show up, the hope it once ignited within Tater when he repeated them in his mind dimmed bit by bit.

There weren’t many other resources for sympathy, not when most of his connections, even at home, were related to hockey or his public image. He’d even had difficulty explaining the situation to his parents, who didn’t seem to understand why he wasn’t more excited about the Falcs’ win in the final.

“You did your part. They could build the most beautiful home up from the ground without you, but not without the foundation you laid beneath,” his father had told Tater, no doubt channeling his own hockey days from years ago.

While Tater knew there was truth to what his father said, he couldn’t find it all that comforting. Not when he felt so utterly isolated from his team’s celebrations, not when he was alone in the uncertainty surrounding his future. 

_ What if the foundation gives out and it all crumbles away? _ he’d wanted to ask.  _ What happens then? _

He had no idea of the answer, and he didn’t know who could provide one.

Later that day, when he dragged himself out the door for the Cup parade, the walk down the driveway to the chauffeured car that had been sent for him felt like the longest walk of his life.

The one upside of being injured during the parade was that he wasn’t expected to actually interact with fans. Given that he required both a brace and a cane at the moment, Tater was under strict instructions to rest on the float almost the entire time. Since he had no spare energy to fake a smile and pretend to chit-chat while the fate of his career remained unknown, this plan was fine with him. 

Throughout the event, Tater made a point of sticking with the younger players, who were too high on adrenaline and too drunk to notice that he wasn’t up to doing anything more than waving to fans from a distance. He even got to make himself useful when Poots, already tipsy at eleven o’clock in the morning, started to get dizzy from the heat of the summer sun beating down on them. Without hesitation, Tater handed him his Gatorade, and Poots chugged it without delay.

“Thanks, Tater,” he said gratefully between gulps. “You’re a real bro.”

“Very welcome,” Tater replied, pleased that even in his condition, he could still manage to do something to help someone.

Then the silver gleam of the Cup caught his eye as Jack presented it to a trio of children clamoring for a look, and he smiled ruefully as another pang of envy pierced through him.

A throng of media personnel awaited them at the conclusion of the parade, but few reporters made an effort to speak to Tater. Not when he’d been out for the last three games of the series. Instead, they flocked to Thirdy and Marty, the captains; to Jack, heir to Bad Bob’s legacy and the rookie who’d scored the winning goal; and Snowy, the senior goalkeeper who’d successfully blocked dozens of shots on the net from the Schooners throughout the series. 

Even in the midst of his jealousy, Tater couldn’t help but be grateful. Marty had been with him for his entire career on the Falcs, Thirdy was exceptionally perceptive, and Snowy was his closest friend. Any one of them would instantly pick up on his blue mood and try to draw him out of it, and right now, Tater just wanted to be left alone to mope.

The only time reporters noticed Tater, it was to ask about his injury. How it felt, if it was disappointing to be forced out of the playoffs early while his team went on to victory.

As if the answer wasn’t obvious.

At least Vanessa from Channel Seven was kinder about it than most. 

“We’ve all heard the reports of your lower body injury,” she acknowledged, her face serious. “Do you have any updates for the fans out there who are concerned about your recovery?”

Smiling in response to that kind of question was painful; Tater hadn’t been allowed to start PT yet, having been told to rest until the doctor cleared him.

“Going well,” he lied. “Very hopeful for next season. Very appreciate fans who be wishing well for me.”

It was a generic hockey answer that would have made both PR and the GMs proud, and Tater hated himself a little bit for it. He hated that he wasn’t allowed to tell the truth, admit that he might not be back at all, confess how scared and upset the prospect left him.

But there was no place in hockey for that.

Vanessa nodded, smiling at the answer, and then switched tracks. “What about your ongoing relationship with Kent Parson? Do the two of you have any romantic plans for the summer?”

They had at one point. A scenic villa on a private ocean shore where Tater could get an eyeful of Kent’s sun-kissed body every time the two of them ventured outside. For a long time now, Tater had dreamed of whisking Kent off to an exotic beach, where he could press Kenny down into the sand and lavish him with attention, demonstrate exactly how much he appreciated him. But Tater’s injury had spoiled their plans on hold indefinitely, pending doctors’ appointments and PT.

He smiled blandly, trying not to let his disappointment seep into his face, swallowing any hurt or frustration at everything his injury had ruined for him. “We have to be seeing what summer brings, yes?”

“Will Parson be with us in Providence this summer?” Vanessa persisted. “There’s been rumors for months that he’ll be extending his deal with Hasbro, and their headquarters are Pawtucket. It seems likely that we might see him around.” 

The question prickled Tater’s skin even as he tried to remind himself that he loved Kent and wouldn’t give him up for anything in the world. It seemed like the cruelest irony in the universe that even though Tater’s team had finally managed to secure a Cup, he hadn’t been there to help. And now the main conversation where he was concerned revolved around Kent instead of him or his game. Kent Parson, his hockey champion boyfriend with ‘Victory’ literally in his name, the top player in the League who’d even beaten out Crosby, the one the North American press already posited was too good for a Russian thug like Tater. 

“He’ll be here,” Tater replied to Vanessa, forcing himself to smile and hoping that no one could glimpse the bitterness lurking beneath. “Sooner or later.”

* * *

Kent arrived late that night, after Tater had already gone to bed. He’d texted that his layover ended up being longer than expected, in between messages from Bitty, who was worried about Tater already living on his own again and wanted him back at Jack’s apartment. But even if Kent hadn’t already been on his way, there wasn’t a chance of Tater returning to stay with Jack and Bitty. Hanging out at Jack’s place during playoffs was one thing, but now that the Falcs had their victory, it would be much too obvious that Tater didn’t feel like celebrating in the slightest.

At first when Tater dimly registered the sound of Addy, his large, goofy pit bull, barking up a storm, he thought he may have been still dreaming. Too exhausted to bother with getting out of bed for what might be nothing, he closed his eyes and let sleep wash over him again. Only when the mattress of his king bed dipped down with the weight of a second person was he fully aware that he was no longer alone in his room.

Startled, he pushed himself up onto his forearms, gasping as a jolt of pain shot through his knee and sent him back down almost instantly.

“Shh, big guy, relax,” Kent’s familiar voice urged him, and then there was a rustle of movement before a pair of soft lips pressed lightly against Tater’s neck, careful not to put any weight onto his shoulders. “It’s just me; my flight was delayed.”

_ “L’vionachik?” _ Tater asked, his voice still rough with sleep. “You here?”

“For as long as you need me,” Kent confirmed, lifting up the blanket and joining Tater beneath the covers. “It’s okay. You can go back to sleep now.”

As Kent settled in, he was sure to leave a significant gap between himself and Tater in the king-sized bed, no doubt to avoid jostling Tater’s injured knee in his sleep. Tater still scooched closer, ignoring the throbbing in his leg, so he could fling an arm around Kent’s waist and fall asleep with the knowledge of his boyfriend secure beside him. 

* * *

The early morning sun filtering into his bedroom roused Tater early the next morning, and he cracked open his eyes to find himself alone in his bed. For several seconds, he wondered if it was just wishful thinking that allowed him to think Kent had arrived late last night, but movement on the other side of the room caught his eye. Standing before the bay window was Kent, holding up the transparent orange bottle of bottle of painkillers that had been prescribed to Tater after his surgery. 

He made a cute picture, and for a moment, Tater was content to simply look at him and admire his boyfriend anew. Kent’s hair still tousled from sleep, gleaming like freshly spun gold in the same morning light that softened the angles of his face and highlighted his smooth skin. He wore nothing but a pair of skintight briefs and a T-shirt of Tater’s that was endearingly large on him, hanging loosely off his shoulders and down to his hips. 

Except for the worried frown on his face as he studied the label on the pill bottle, he would have looked like a dream come true. Something heavy settled in Tater’s chest at the sight of his expression.

“Okay, Kenny?” he asked him quietly.   


Kent startled, clearly not having realized Tater was awake, a media-practiced smile curving across his lips as he turned toward him, setting the pill bottle aside. 

“Baby,” he sighed, sounding happy, or at least close to it, and returning to the bed and crawling across the mattress to give Tater a deep kiss. “God, I’ve missed you.”

Kissing Kent was always like stepping out into a pool of warm sunlight after becoming chilled from spending too much time in the shade, and this time was no different. The plush press of his lips, the gentle push to go deeper, and the soft, satisfied, barely-audible noises from the back of his throat always boosted Tater’s mood, always reminded him that out of all the models and athletes Kent could have dated, he’d chosen Tater.

Of course, this time was still different. Normally, Kent didn’t hesitate to straddle Tater’s lap and rock against him, but now he was careful to remain apart and press his weight into the mattress for balance instead. The kiss was slightly more tender than usual, too; once they broke apart for breath, Kent moved to Tater’s neck and then collarbone, brushing his lips across his flesh in the lightest touches imaginable, all while tracing the tips of his fingers through Tater’s hair. 

A part of Tater just wanted to relax into the touch and enjoy it, but a strange feeling of wrongness simmered beneath his skin that he couldn’t place. The change in how Kent approached him left him feeling uneasy, like a distance had grown between them, and just the prospect had uncertainty and stress poking at him. He kept wondering, too, when Kent would ask about his injury—it was strange that he hadn’t yet. And yes, they’d already talked about it, but it struck him as odd that someone as organized as Kent wouldn’t check in again. 

Due to his own disquiet, Tater found himself making excuses to cut their reunion short.

“Should stop,” he told Kent abruptly, cringing inwardly at the harshness of the words. He floundered for a way to soften what he’d said. “Addy needs outside. And breakfast—you be needing it.” 

But Kent didn’t seem particularly bothered, leaning back to look up at Tater and smiling at him lazily. “I’ve already let Admiral out. She’s having fun trying to scare the squirrels away from the birdfeeder. And I don’t need to eat right now. I can wait.” He gently ran his fingers down the side of Tater’s face. “Especially for you, Alyosha.”

Kent’s gaze was so soft it was almost liquid, and again, the same discomfort trickled through Tater at having it directed his way. “But you so skinny now. At my house, cannot let you go with not eating.”

It was an excuse, but it wasn’t a lie—the strain of the season’s end had left Kent’s body slimmer and less like a hockey player’s than ever before. Tater could feel his hip bones through his clothes, could probably lift up his shirt and trace them with a finger if he wanted to. 

Kent sighed at him but smiled, holding up his hands in surrender. “Who am I to deny my battle-scarred boyfriend anything he desires?”

Tater wanted to smile at the comment, he truly did, but his stomach twisted at Kent’s casual reference to his injury, and he suddenly felt like the air had been robbed from his lungs and he couldn’t get it back. 

“Uh, my brace,” he managed instead of responding, looking around the room for it. Automatically, he swung his legs down from the bed, then he realized he’d have to be wearing the brace to stand. 

But Kent had already located it on the bedside table, and without hesitation, fluidly slid to his knees to kneel down before Tater. 

The sight stirred a pleasant heat within Tater, knowing he was the only one who Kent would fall to his knees for like that. But the heat faded as that inexplicable feeling of distance, that Kenny was far away from him even when he was kneeling right there, needled through him, sewing a thread of unease. It was like the Kent that was here wasn’t  _ his _ Kenny any longer.

“Here, I’ve got it,” Kent reassured him, and smoothly but gently strapped the brace firmly against Tater’s knee. The movements were so swift that he must have done it before, and it occurred to Tater that, as captain, Kent had probably helped various teammates through lower body injuries at least a dozen times over the past six years.

Immediately after Tater’s surgery, it had just been him and Bitty at Jack’s apartment so he didn’t have to be recovering alone those first few days. And Bitty, while inexperienced at playing nurse, had tried his best, with profuse apologies for his fumbling attempts and serving plenty of pie as a way to compensate for them. He’d barely been able to help Tater with his brace, panicking at even a pained hiss from Tater and then, when he was finally finished, wringing his hands that he’d tightened the straps too much. And yet now, an unexpected pang of longing for Bitty, for his bumbling best efforts rather than Kent’s smooth efficiency, knifed through Tater, startling him.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want Kent. Of course not. It was just—Kent had so obviously been there before, and—well, clearly, Kent was a good captain, but—

A brief touch to his arm shook Tater out of his incoherent thoughts, and Kent rose from where he’d been crouched down in front of him, looking at him with that liquid-soft gaze again. He silently handed Tater a glass of water, and then shook a pill out of the bottle and handed it to him.

“Ready to go downstairs?” he asked quietly, once Tater had swallowed it down.

Tater nodded, and Kent handed him his cane and helped him stand, and then carefully kept pace with Tater as he painstakingly moved to the hall and then the stairs. While Bitty had fretted endlessly whenever Tater needed to stand, Kent was vigilant but silent except for “Okay, steady,” and “It’s all right, you’ve got this,” and “Lean on me if you have to, it’s fine.”

It wasn’t a bad thing. It was just . . . different. Evidence that his scenario was one where Kent had practice. 

After helping Tater to a kitchen chair, Kent checked on Addy in the backyard and then moved to fill her food dish.

“Sorry it took me so long to get here, by the way,” Kent said sincerely, fiddling with his rolex in a manner Tater recognized as a nervous habit. “I was helping Silver with his injury, and then it was Zephyr’s birthday, and just when I finally was about to leave, Mouse found a family of possums living in his garage and wanted to keep them as pets. I finally convinced him to use a cruelty-free exterminator—you know, one of those catch-and-release services.”

Tater couldn’t hold back a chuckle at the last part, but something painful twisted deep inside of him. Each one of the names was one he recognized: Silvennoinen, one of Kent’s own teammates and close friends from the Aces who’d suffered several broken ribs in the conference finals against the Schooners; Zephyr, one of his godchildren and a child of a now-retired Aces teammate; and finally, Mathous, his former rookie from last season who Kent was still very close with.

Each one was a significant part of Kent’s life, one of the many relationships he’d established for himself through the team he led on the other side of the country. Each one was a responsibility Tater had never so much as been asked to take on.

None of them were responsibilities Tater  _ could  _ shoulder at the moment.

Trying to ignore the band of melancholy tightening around his chest, Tater forced himself to smile, concentrating on the humor of Kent’s explanation. 

“For what he be wanting possum?” he asked. If he was remembering right, possums were the mouse-like American nighttime creature with pink noses. He'd taught himself to distinguish them in his memory by matching “pink” with “possum.” It was one of the several tricks he’d devised to help himself with learning English.

Kent waved a hand as he opened the cupboard that held the dog food, pouring kibble into the stainless steel dish emblazoned with “Admiral Ackbar," Addy’s full name, and then sprinkling it with her doggy multivitamin powder without so much as a reminder. 

“Oh, he’s been really into nature documentaries and heard that the possum is critical for the ecosystem since it keeps the tick population under control.” Setting Addy’s dish down at her placemat in the corner, he turned and strode back toward the fridge. “So when he found them in his house, he thought he needed to keep them there to stop the spread of lyme disease. He was about fucking ready to renovate his garage into a goddamn possum resort, but I finally convinced him that possums would be more effective at stopping lyme disease if they were in a field someplace. Y’know, where the ticks actually are.” Pulling open the fridge, Kent abruptly switched topics. “So, breakfast. What are you hungry for?”

Tater pointed to the numerous large containers filling most of the fridge. “Little B make breakfast for me after hospital. Says I only should heat in oven.”

“Huh.” Shrugging, Kent slid out a large container and plopped it on the counter, popping open the lid. His expression transformed into a comical mixture of disgust and incredulity as he glimpsed the contents within. “Yeah, babe, what in the actual fuck is this?”

Tater snorted. “Label on side,” he pointed out helpfully. 

_ “Raspberry marmalade croissant French toast bake with cream cheese glaze,” _ Kent read out loud.  _ “Top with whipped cream to add sweetness. _ Yeah, somehow I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.” He snapped the lid back on the container and shoved it back into the fridge, digging out the eggs instead and then diving in again to rifle through the vegetable crisper. “Right. I’m making you something that’s not pure sugar and actually has some nutritional value. What do you think of an egg white alpine omelette and oatmeal with almonds and banana?”

Tater couldn’t help but crack a smile, happiness breaking through his previous gloom. After all, who else got to have a barely clothed Kent Parson offering to cook breakfast for them? 

“Not alpine omelette?” he wheedled. “Turkey and cheese with apple instead of broccoli?”

Kent rolled his eyes, but extracted several Granny Smith apples from the fridge and yanked open the utensil drawer to find a knife. 

* * *

Most of the morning was occupied by the two of them just lounging around the house. Tater was still at the resting stage of his recovery and couldn’t be very active at this time, not if he wanted his knee to heal properly.

Dread pierced through him at the thought. While the surgery had been successful, there was a chance that his recovery might not be. And if it wasn’t, then that was a death sentence to his career. 

For Kent, it was clear that even while he relaxed, he still had a dozen tasks to complete. As Tater propped up his knee on a pillow to lounge on the couch and binge  _ Justified, _ Kent settled into the opposite corner of the sectional, ordering fresh groceries to be delivered to the house, firing off several emails, reorganizing his schedule so he could join Tater at his next doctor’s appointment, and then abandoning the couch entirely so he could take Addy out on a walk. 

Somehow, when he left for that short span of time, the house felt lonelier than it had twenty-four hours earlier, when Tater had been its only occupant. 

And the feeling didn’t lift even when Kent returned and climbed back up on the couch to join him, Addy leaping up to curl up on Kent’s other side.

Kent sighed, relaxing back into the cushions, placing a very careful arm around Tater’s shoulders, a contrast to the way he normally burrowed into Tater’s side without the slightest hesitation.

“I’m glad to be here, you know,” he said quietly, and Tater could feel his eyes resting on him even as he himself didn’t let his own gaze drift away from the screen. “I’m glad to be with you.”

Unable to look at his boyfriend, Tater just nodded without looking at him. “Glad you here, too,” he said, but, with a twisting sensation in his stomach, was surprised to realize that his words weren’t the truth.

He also couldn’t help but wonder, yet again, why Kent hadn’t asked about his knee.

* * *

One aspect of being Kent’s boyfriend that Tater didn’t enjoy very much was that he always needed to share Kent with whoever was currently filling up Kent’s schedule. Even when Kent was on vacation, he was never truly free, always attending some kind of PR event, rushing off to some photoshoot for the latest company that wanted him to be the face of their ad campaign, or sitting down for an interview with reporters who were eager to hear from the seemingly one hockey player in existence who wasn’t afraid to show his personality.

Tater loved Kent, he really did. But sometimes, he wished he could just have Kent to himself instead of Kent being shackled to his schedule first and foremost..

This visit to Providence was no different. Kent’s time on the East Coast wasn’t simply a mission of mercy to his newly crippled boyfriend. As Vanessa from Channel Seven had mentioned, Kent was also scheduled to start visiting the Hasbro headquarters so they could begin meetings for Kent’s latest action figure for their brand.

It was normal for hockey players to have an official NHL action figure, but Kent never had been satisfied with “normal,” breezing straight past and not slowing down until he at least reached “exceptional.” Two years ago, he’d signed a deal with Hasbro to allow them to use his name and likeness for a G.I. Joe figurine, and so Kent “Powerhouse” Parson had become available as a mail-order exclusive, just like the American football player the Fridge had been, according to Poots. 

“I mean, the whole G.I. Joe marketing gimmick is that they’re ‘Real American Heroes,’” Poots had told Tater excitedly. “It only makes sense that they’d want to get the most American guy ever to be a part of their toy line. Kent’s a blond-haired, blue-eyed boy who was literally born on the Fourth of July. No wonder they want him.”

“The only reason they want him, Poots, is because all the Americans have a weird-ass boner for Kent being the quote-unquote  _ right _ type of American,” Snowy had informed his fellow Albertan, unimpressed. “And the blond hair and those freaky mood ring eyes—which are only sometimes blue, by the way—are just a part of their fucked up Aryan fantasy about him.” He tossed an apologetic look at Tater. “Sorry. But we all know it’s true.”

“None taken,” Tater had assured him. He’d been thinking back to his sophomore season, after Kent had proved his mettle and won the Aces the Cup and swept the NHL Awards, when Harley-Davidson had recruited Kent to be the face of their revived ad campaign. After that, no one could hit a puck without it bouncing off a billboard of a shirtless teenage Kent with bedroom eyes lounging on a gleaming motorcycle beneath the slogan:  _ Harley-Davidson—for the authentic American _ . 

The ads had worked, the sales skyrocketing till Harley-Davidson was the top-selling brand in the US (though their profits plummeted in Canada as part of a national boycott against the company’s new posterboy). Inspired by Harley-Davidson’s success, or maybe by the ad campaign featuring a half-naked nineteen-year-old, Hasbro then recruited Kent to feature in their own stagnating product line. 

And despite Kent’s questionable qualifications, Hasbro then experienced similar success. With the release of his action figure steadily revitalizing their sales numbers, they’d now decided to release a new, updated variation. This time, the figure would be Kent in his Team USA jersey and featuring Kit as his trusty feline sidekick, though they were changing her to be a lynx rather than a Maine Coon (for more of an ‘action’ vibe, Kent had explained). News of the latter already had enraged a good number of Oilers fans, as they swore the decision had been orchestrated by Kent as a deliberate swipe at their beloved Hunter. 

Kent’s status as a desirable ad model was another difference between himself and Tater. True, Tater might have had a father who was a well-known Soviet League star, a mother who held more Olympic figure-skating gold medals than most people had children, and a sister who was a lead dancer in the Russian National Ballet. But between the two of them, Kent was the handsome, appealing one whose face corporations wanted to plaster onto billboards. 

Tater wasn’t jealous, not really. He just . . . noticed. 

But after years of snobby Canadians criticizing Tater’s hockey style and countrymen, he was only too happy to cheer on the targets of their rage, and so he eagerly handed over the keys to his spare SUV to Kent. He would have done so anyway, but now he was extra happy to be helping the cause.

“Thanks,” Kent told him earnestly, shouldering one of his hockey bags. “This would be hell to deal with in a cab, and it’s such a pain in the ass to find a rental with enough storage space.”

“They have you bringing gear?” Tater asked, curious. 

“They want to film me on the ice for some of the promos,” Kent explained. “And they can’t use actual game footage because they’d have to pay the NHL royalties, so it’s just going to be me and some extras on the ice. But they want to get all the footage now so they can begin airing commercials before Thanksgiving, in time for Black Friday and the Christmas season. They’re hoping that I’ll get selected for the Olympic roster again this winter, so that toy sales remain solid instead of dropping off as soon as the holiday rush is over.” 

Tater barely held back a sarcastic remark. Kent had brought home the gold for Team USA two Olympic games in a row—he’d scored the golden goal at Vancouver back when he was _ rookie, _ for fuck’s sake. Of course he was going to be selected for the Olympic roster. Anyone who didn’t pick him would have been immediately fired from their job.

Meanwhile, Tater had once played at the Olympics, back in 2014, when Russia had taken fifth place. He’d made it solely because he’d been on the reserve roster and two of his countrymen had been out with injuries before the games even started. After the Red Machine’s poor showing that year, it had been speculated that if either of them had been able to participate, the team’s performance would have been much improved. As much as Tater tried not to take the speculation personally, it had still been a blow to hear the theory repeated over and over again.

Kent set down the last of his bags and ambled back over to the couch to join Tater. “I won’t be home in time for lunch,” he informed him, an apology written all over his face. “But I can prep some stuff for you and leave it in the fridge. That way, you just have to pop it in the oven.”

Fresh guilt washed over Tater. Kent could hardly help that he was the best, that he was talented and respected. Someone had to be on top, after all. And Kent was still thoughtful, still concerned for Tater, but all Tater could do was envy him.

“I’m liking this,” he told Kent, forcing gratitude into his voice. “Thank you, Kenny. So thoughtful.”   
He leaned over to kiss Kent’s forehead. 

“Hmm.” Closing his eyes, Kent snuggled against Tater’s shoulder, and Tater’s heart leapt; it was the same way he’d used to do so back before Tater was injured. “You’re welcome. I’m just so glad to be back here with you.”

_ Then why aren’t you talking to me? _ Tater wanted to ask, but swallowed the words down so he could make the embrace last as long as possible.

* * *

Kent left by eight the next morning for his nine o’clock meeting with Hasbro execs, leaving Tater on his own with Addy. She’d already gotten a run, and so she was content to curl up on the couch by Tater as he idly flipped through Netflix, wondering if he ought to try that  _ Stranger Things  _ show everyone had raved about last summer, or if he should try to watch a documentary for a change. The latter genre had helped him learn a significant amount about American culture, and he thought he might as well continue that educational streak.

But just as he was scrolling through his options, a realization dawned on him, and he tossed the remote aside with a sigh. Who knew how much longer he would remain in America? If his knee didn’t heal, the Falcs wouldn’t even keep him for their farm team.

But before he could become too weighed down by dark thoughts, his phone buzzed, Bitty’s name and image flashing over the screen.

“Little B!” Tater enthused, relieved to have the distraction. “How you being?”

“Just wonderful,” Bitty told him cheerily. “I was actually callin’ to check on you. Seems like you done dropped off the planet after you went back to your place.”

Tater winced. He’d been hoping no one had noticed his absence from the rest of the team’s festivities.

“Kent being here,” he covered smoothly. “He be caring for me. Not letting me be too tired, saying I must rest to be strong again.”

“Well, you could use the TLC,” Bitty replied, making no mention of Kent himself. There was the clink of metal on metal; he was probably working the kitchen as he spoke, maybe stirring mix in a bowl for dough or whisking eggs for meringue.

“How be you?” Tater asked, eager to change the subject away from himself.

“Me? Oh, Tater.” Bitty laughed, and Tater thought he detected a shred of anxiety to it. “Well, I think I’m about underfoot here. Jack and I aren’t used to being in each other’s space for long periods of time. I think I’ve about hit his limit.”

A solution immediately struck Tater, and he found himself offering an invitation on impulse.

“Come and be spending time with me,” he urged. “Empty house. Kent have meetings all day. I’m might be needing a nurse,” he added teasingly.

Bitty did not take much convincing. “All right,” he agreed. “Just let me take these pies out of the oven.”

Within the hour, Bitty arrived, touting several varieties of pie, one cherry with a meticulous lattice crust, and another that was a cheddar apple and originated from a new dessert cookbook Bitty was trying out.

“Not that the book can compare with my Moomaw’s recipes, of course,” Bitty assured Tater as he carefully stowed the pies away in the freezer (the fridge itself was out of room). “But the woman couldn’t think of every kind of pie out there, could she? Someone would have to come out with something new sometime. I mean, statistically.”

Tater laughed, stress he didn’t know he was holding in easing out of his body. Talking with Bitty was such a welcome change; he rarely wanted to talk hockey, and it was a welcome change for Tater not to have to worry about when the topic would arise.

Since Tater still needed to rest, he again ended up back on the couch in front of the TV, but when Bitty joined him, he didn’t keep his distance from Tater as Kent had, but he comfortably settled right beside him. 

“What have you been watchin’?” Bitty asked, reaching for the TV remote and making a face when he saw Tater’s viewing history.  _ “American Vandal? Mindhunter? _ Honey,  _ please _ ."  Patting Tater on the shoulder, he began scrolling through the list of options. “Have you ever heard of this movie called  _ A Christmas Prince _ ? I know it ain’t Christmas anymore, but it’s a real good flick.”

When Kent returned home that evening armed with dinner, he found Tater and Bitty still camped out in front of the TV. Addy was the only one to greet him right away, so excited to see him that she leapt up and almost bowled him over.

“Not interrupting, I hope,” Kent commented as he juggled the takeout bags to one hand so he could pet Addy with the other.

“Not at all,” Bitty said easily as his eyes remained riveted to the TV. 

Turning to look at Kent to thank him for bringing dinner, Tater opened his mouth and then closed it again at the sight of Kent’s apparel. Even at past six o’clock in the afternoon, Kent looked immaculate in his sharply cut pale gray suit, complete with cufflinks winking at his wrists. True, he’d removed his tie and undone the top several buttons of his pressed shirt, but the sliver of his golden skin peeking out from beneath served only to heighten his appeal.

Suddenly, Tater felt like a lazy slob in baggy t-shirt and athletic shorts. Just another reminder, then, that Kent was still a professional while he was stuck as an invalid.

“Well, I’ll be taking Addy for a walk, then,” Kent said, setting down the takeout and striding over to retrieve Addy’s leash as she hopped around in excitement. “I’ll be back in about twenty minutes. Call the cops if I don’t make it back in an hour.”

Tater forced himself to send a tired smile Kent’s way. They’d walked Addy together dozens of times—he could remember when they’d spent Christmas together this past December, and how the glow of the streetlights had illuminated Kent’s face, softening his features, as snowflakes drifted down to coat his shoulders like a dusting powdered sugar.

He wondered if he would ever get a moment like that again.

On the TV screen, the unmemorable girl kissed her love interest and gained her happily-ever-after after not doing anything in particular to deserve it. Tater wondered just what made her so special.

* * *

“Did you have a nice visit with Eric?” Kent asked him that night as he helped him with his brace. “He must be lonely, being here and not having any of his school friends around.”

“He has Jack,” Tater pointed out.

“Yes,” Kent replied, and didn’t elaborate.

A pause persisted for several moments.

“Had good visit,” Tater ventured. “Always good to see Little B.”

“I’m glad,” Kent said, setting Tater’s brace on the bedside table and reaching to turn off the light. 


	2. Chapter 2

The next night there was a barbecue at Marty’s house, mainly because there were only so many bars in Providence willing to tolerate nearly thirty rowdy guys determined to drink themselves into a stupor. Several of the younger players almost got slapped with a drunk-driving charge earlier that week, and there had already been multiple rounds of warning emails from PR, cautioning them that their victory was no excuse for irresponsible behavior. 

The venue switch only heightened Tater’s irritation; his injury and limited mobility gave him a built-in excuse not to go out and party on the town with the rest of the team. But now that the party had been brought to someone’s house and the atmosphere was going to ostensibly be more low-key, there was more of an expectation for him to show up. 

Kent was anticipating the night as well, looking forward to hanging out with Gabby, who he’d met by teaming up the Falcs’ WAGs for fundraisers whenever he was in town to visit Tater, and to catching up with Thirdy, who’d played on the Aces for Kent’s first three years. And if Kent had sensed Tater’s reluctance to attend, he didn’t mention it.

Still, when Marty greeted them at the door and pulled Tater into a gentle hug with a heartfelt, “Good to see you, man. Where’ve you been?”, he saw Kent frown slightly and shoot him a sideways glance.

Tater just smiled at them both and shrugged wordlessly, trying to ignore the rising guilt he felt for not giving an explanation to either of them.

Teammates and their spouses and kids filled the house, but most of the party had spilled out onto Marty’s extensive back deck and terra cotta patio, so that was where Tater and Kent found themselves as well. Several teammates slapped Tater on the back, with significantly less force than usual, and Tater tried not to flush as he glimpsed their gazes straying to his brace and cane. When Ziggy bounded up to him and seized him in a bear hug, blithely ignoring both, it was a relief. Tater struggled to keep in an angry retort when Guy passed by and warned Ziggy to take it easy on him.

He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to be the invalid, to be the person his friends and teammates had to mince their words and actions around because his body had betrayed them. He didn’t want them to be always second-guessing themselves because of him; he didn’t want to be _pitied._

Hyperaware of the tension cooling in his shoulders and the stress pounding away at his head, Tater decided to make his escape. 

“I be going to find Zimmboni,” he murmured to Kent, knowing it was a place where Kent definitely would not be following him.

The nagging sense of guilt increased even as Kent merely nodded and stood on his tiptoes to give Tater a quick kiss close to his lips, and then seamlessly merged with a group of WAGs that included Poots’s new girlfriend, immediately introducing himself to her with the same smile that had somehow managed to charm the families of every one of his top rivals (much to their frustration).

Kent always had been good with people in a way Tater didn’t seem to have the attitude or English aptitude to achieve. Since the day of the draft, he’d been branded ‘showy” but “surly,” and trying to improve that image by volunteering as a Falcs TV host had only resulted in accusations that he wasn’t as focused on his game as his Ontario or Alberta-born teammates. His reputation was part of the reason why the media had labelled their relationship “opposites attract”—the brooding, enigmatic Russian with the confident, sunny American—since the day their relationship had gone public, even though Tater didn’t think they were all that different in terms of personality. 

Without drawing too much further attention to himself, Tater was able to locate Jack on the edge of the patio, sitting sideways on a cushioned lounge chair with a beer in hand and his back to the party. When Tater stumped over to the chair next to him, he sent a smile his way and reached out to steady the chair for him, but didn’t offer any greeting or comment. A quick glance at his face showed dark circles under his eyes and strain at the edges, as if he wasn’t enjoying the team’s victory any more than Tater, leaving Tater to wonder if the renewed media attention at winning the Cup wasn’t doing Jack any favors.

Silently, Tater held out his beer bottle for a toast, and Jack wasted no time in clinking it with his own, and a wordless but comfortable companionship settled between them.

Meanwhile, back amongst people who actually wanted to socialize, Kent was palling around with the other Falcs, and Tater was grateful. The more Kent was the center of attention, the less he had to deal with questions and speculations about his injury. He didn’t even have to worry about Snowy coming to find him, since he was at home, helping his wife with their teething toddler.

But then Thirdy’s daughter showed up and dragged Kent off to the swing set, begging for him to help her with the monkey bars, and, laughing, the group of Falcs and WAGs waved Kent off to go play with the kids.

Any other time, Tater would have joined him, and pushed one or both of Marty’s twins on the swings or lifted up Benji’s toddler and held her all the while so her chubby hands could grasp the trapeze as she giggled delightedly. There was actually a running joke amongst both of their teams about the time they spent with their teammates’ children: “So, when are you going to be adopting my kids, again? I could use some R and R.”

But now Tater was twenty-five years old and needed a cane to walk, so he merely slumped on the lounge chair and hoped no one else wandered over to talk with him.

His hopes were dashed when Poots joined him, on what was no doubt his fourth or fifth beer, his cheeks flushed from the alcohol and his eyes fixed squarely on Kent.

“He’s really something, you know?” Poots said to Tater, sitting down, uninvited, on the other end of the lounge chair, looking at Kent all the while with a lovelorn gaze. “He’s just so . . . _real,_ you know?”

“Hm,” Tater offered, feeling neither up to conversation or joining in on ogling his own boyfriend, and he caught Jack shifting uncomfortably out of the corner of his eye, clearly no more eager to listen to hear what Poots had to say than Tater was. 

Poots had what Snowy had once described as an “obnoxiously obvious thirst for Kent,” and while Tater generally found it more funny than irritating, he didn’t have the patience to listen to Poots ramble on about it tonight.

But Poots remained oblivious to Tater’s lack of enthusiasm. “I mean, how many guys like that are there out there? A guy who plays killer hockey and ices Crosby and fights Malkin, and then can do . . . can do this?” He gestured with a wobbly hand at Kent catching one of Marty’s twins at the end of the slide and lifting the kid up and spinning him around. “Acting like he’s just some guy, like he’s nothing special? But he is _special._ He’s _real_ special. And he’s yours, and that’s so . . . special.” He concluded his speech with a swig of beer, like it was a toast to Kent and Tater’s relationship.

A long pause ensued, made longer by it taking a few seconds for Tater to realize Poots was waiting on him for a response.

“Yes,” Tater managed eventually, very conscious of Jack sitting stiffly on the lounge chair right beside him. “ _L’vionachik_ is special.”

* * *

Tater was quiet during the ride home, and Kent seemed to recognize his need to silence, glancing at him several times but offering no comment. After parking in the garage, he faithfully shadowed Tater into the house and helped him get settled onto the couch, setting a pillow beneath his leg and bringing him an ice pack. 

“Can I loosen your brace?” he asked, and when Tater nodded, he did so, pressing the ice to Tater’s knee in its place.

“You need to eat something,” Kent told him, studying Tater with a slight frown. “I noticed you didn’t grab anything at the cookout.”

Tater avoided his gaze. In all honesty, he hadn’t been very hungry, and even if he’d had an appetite, he wasn’t sure that it would have been enough to convince him to limp over the the grill and risk a conversation with his teammates about his leg and if he’d be back the following season, and then be forced to tolerate the pitying looks when he admitted he had no idea.

“What can I get for you?” Kent pressed when he didn’t respond. “C’mon, I know I’m not going to be winning any baking competitions, but you know from Mouse that I’ve never let any of my rookies go hungry.”

There was a strange edge to his voice that Tater couldn’t quite place, and he frowned quizzically even as he shook his head. “Not being hungry. Not be wanting for anything.”

“Not anything?” Kent persisted. “Come on, Tater Tot. I’m here to take care of you, remember?”

Abruptly, Tater’s temper spiked. Whether it was Kent’s refusal to accept his answer, the fresh reminder that his entire team was celebrating without him, the constant fear that his injury had tanked his career, or renewed feelings of inadequacy after listening to Poots gushing about how wonderful Kent was.

But whatever the reason, the reply ripped from his mouth before he could recall forming the words. “Maybe I’m not wanting for you to care for me.”

Instantly, Kent blanched back as if Tater had struck him, and a sickish feeling in his stomach told Tater he might as well have done just that. For a moment, the only expression on his face was hurt, but then it rapidly morphed into anger. 

“That’s funny, you know?” Kent’s voice was hard. “Because I don’t remember you objecting to my ex's boyfriend coming over to hang all over you during the times when I’m not around.”

While Tater’s English might not have been as adept as a native speaker’s, he picked up Kent’s meaning immediately. 

“Little B is different,” he insisted, helpless thanks to his limited English to explain any other way.

Going by the fresh wave of hurt that flooded Kent’s face, it was an exceptionally poor choice of words for the situation, and Tater cursed himself for not being able to find better ones.

“Oh, excuse me,” Kent said acidly, his pain shifting into anger again. “I didn’t realize. I didn’t realize how very special and _different_ the current boyfriend of my ex is when it comes to taking care of you. I’m such an _idiot_ for not knowing,” he bit out. 

The conversation was careening out of control, and Tater couldn’t quite grasp either the ideas of the words to get it back on track. Still, he felt obligated to try.

“Not an idiot,” he said forcefully. “Just—Little B be knowing when I’m hurting, and when he be trying to make better, I be feeling better.”

Kent went very quiet at the remark, his jaw tightening, knuckles going white on the steering wheel. He did not respond to what Tater had said at all, instead focusing on his driving, and then, once they’d pulled into the garage, on helping Tater into the house.

Though it wasn’t especially late, weariness weighed on Tater’s bones, and he could feel the pain in his knee sharpening as the painkillers began to wear off. It was a relief when Kent guided him to the stairs instead of the couch, smoothly supporting Tater up every step and then throughout his bedtime routine. Only once Tater was comfortably settled did Kent start preparing for bed himself.

Tired, but not able to drift off to sleep, Tater waited for him to join him in bed, eyes half-closed and tension slowly uncoiling from his muscles. 

But when Kent laid down beside him, Tater couldn’t help but feel that the distance between them had grown wider than ever.

* * *

The following morning brought his first doctor’s appointment since the initial post-surgery check-up. After forcing breakfast onto him, Kent drove Tater to the office and escorted him inside, all with the kind of precise, practiced care that only reminded Tater that Kent had yet to so much as ask him how his knee was even feeling.

The news from the doctor was as promising as could be expected. 

“There’s nothing about the healing process that worries me right now,” she said, scribbling on her clipboard. “And the pain is manageable? Nothing unexpected?”

“The pills you gave help,” Tater replied, and he didn’t miss the sharp look Kent directed his way at that comment.

The doctor nodded. “Then I’m going to arrange for you to start physical therapy next week.”

Newfound hope ignited within Tater, but he tried to tamp it down, unwilling to have it snuffed out entirely. “Any thought for next season?”

The doctor gave him an apologetic smile. “I can’t make any promises. That’s just up to how the therapy progresses, I’m afraid.”

Tater nodded, crestfallen in spite of himself and overwhelmed at the prospect of going weeks or months without an answer. 

On their way out the door, while Kent spoke with the receptionist and collected the details about his first physical therapy appointment, Tater hung back, feeling like he’d been sucker-punched in the stomach. It wasn’t until he was able to collapse into the car’s passenger seat that he could fully draw in breath again.

The drive back home started silently, the distance between himself and Kent expanding again despite them being seated right next to each other. At this point, Tater had grown so accustomed to the feeling that he barely minded.

Kent was the one to break the silence. “I can give you a ride to PT next week,” he offered. “It’s three times a week, but I can schedule my plans to be on Tuesdays and Thursdays so that I’ll always be available to drive you. And if any other of your appointments need to happen on those days, I can reschedule whatever I have to be there for you.”

It was a very generous offer, especially for someone as busy as Kent and for someone as capable of using a driving service as Tater.

And despite that, Tater couldn’t find it within himself to be grateful. Maybe it was the frustration of coping with the unknown, maybe it was the lingering question of whether PT would even help him get back to hockey, and maybe he was just tired of not being able to read Kent any longer, of not knowing how to get his boyfriend back.

“Nice for you to care,” he snapped, but his voice sounded more wounded than angry. “Been long enough now.”

Kent whipped his head in Tater’s direction, his eyes flashing. “And what does that mean?” he asked, his voice immediately dropping several degrees, as if he’d been anticipating this fight.

Suddenly, exhaustion washed over Tater, and he knew he didn’t want to continue, didn’t want to sabotage the one connection he had at the moment, but he found himself pushing on anyway.

“Since you been here, you not be talking,” he bit out, his resentment and stress surging as he finally seized the chance for an outlet for them both. “Not asking how I be feeling, if I’m hurting, if knee is going to be okay. _Not. One. Word,”_ he emphasized, an unexpected tightness swelling in his throat. “No worry from you for my hockey, for me, if I’m be able to walk. Talk more to wives of guys at party than to me,” he added as a final jab, wanting Kent to realize just how lonely he’d left Tater these past few days.

Again, Kent didn’t respond, just gripped the steering wheel as if his life depended on it.

The silence only infuriated Tater. It was like Kent didn’t care about anything he had to say. 

“Wish someone would ask, you know,” he continued, the words exiting his mouth in a snarl. “Wish someone would ask me how I’m be feeling about team winning without me. How I’m feeling about maybe not playing ever again. But no one asks.”

In a moment of pure frustration, he slammed his palm down onto the dashboard, left irritated and oddly satisfied by the sting the impact sent tingling through his fingers. But when he looked over at Kent, he realized that, more than anything, he just wanted a reaction, something to shake Kent’s blasé attitude. 

“You care now?” Tater persisted, when the silence only continued. “Nothing to say before, nothing to ask, but we see doctor and you care now? Why?”

Kent pulled the car to a stop at a red light, turning to look at Tater directly.

“I care,” he said softly, his eyes darker than usual. “I care so much that half the time that I think I’m an idiot for it.”

For a long moment, they held gazes, Kent’s cool and steely, until a car horn blared in annoyance behind them. Tater glanced up to see that the light had turned green; their time to talk face-to-face was over.

Breaking eye contact, Tater slumped back into the seat, still angry but now overcome with regret and guilt for his outburst. Most of all, he was just desperate for Kent to _understand,_ to talk to him.

The worst part was, he didn’t know what to begin to do about any of it.

* * *

That night, though Kent helped him into bed, he didn’t join Tater.   
  
“I have some work to do,” he explained unsmilingly. 

Consumed by second-guessing his angry exchange with Kent earlier, hours passed before Tater could drift off to sleep. But once he did, he found himself awakened in the middle of the night by the sounds of hoarse sobbing.

 _“L’vionachik?”_ he murmured dimly, mind still hazy with sleep as he blindly reached out to draw Kent to him and hold him as tight as he could manage. He didn’t know what was wrong, but he wanted to comfort his boyfriend.

The shape of Kent’s slim shoulders was just barely visible in the dark, his back to Tater. When he drew in a deep, shaky breath, it was plainly audible. 

“Go back to sleep, Alyosha,” he said, his voice not unkind.

Though Tater struggled to stay awake, not wanting Kent to be alone, sleep overtook him before he even realized, and the next thing he knew, it was morning and Kent was gone.

* * *

A note had been left on the bedside table, weighed down by Tater’s knee brace. _Text me if you need me,_ it read, in Kent’s recognizably slanted scrawl. 

But it wasn’t a text itself.

Even though he could read the note from a distance, Tater still reached for it, sliding his fingers across the paper and swearing he could feel a silent accusation emanating from the ink and into his fingers. A low whine from the ground had him peering down at the floor, and he found Addy huddled pitifully against the side of his bed, almost out of sight. Strands of grass on her copper-colored coat indicated she’d already been out for a walk, but she still gazed up at him pleadingly all the same. 

“[All right,]” Tater said in Russian, sighing as he painstakingly shifted his legs, gritting his teeth as a sharp ache bolted through his knee. “[It will all be fine, Addy. It will be fine.]”

He wished he could believe it. He couldn’t even remember what it felt like to be fine.

* * *

Food and fresh water had been set out for Addy, and a chunk of blueberry baked oatmeal had been carefully extracted from the pan and packed away in the fridge for Tater. Clearly, Kent had organized his departure down to the letter rather than leaving in haste. 

As for the departure itself, Tater wasn’t sure how to feel or what to do about it. He felt simultaneously better and worse: worse for driving away the boyfriend who was doing all that he could to help him, and better for not having living NHL legend Kent Parson in his house to remind him of what might not be his any longer.

It was a goddamn terrible way to feel, and Tater was very aware of it. But that didn’t erase the sense of relief that had trickled over him when he realized he was alone again.

However, he wasn’t alone for long. Just after digging into his oatmeal for the second bite, there was the faint scraping of a key in the lock, and then the front door opened, with slow, measured footsteps crossing the threshold.

“Hello?” Tater called, puzzled.

“Just me,” came the reply, and Snowy walked into view, a tired smile barely clinging to his face. “Hey, Tater. I got Kent’s text. Sorry to barge in, but I figured I’d use the key and save you the trouble of getting up.” 

“Kent texted you?” Tater repeated, freezing.

“He thought you might need somebody,” Snowy confirmed, going over to the fridge and pulling out the iced coffee carafe to pour himself a glass, just as he’d done dozens of times before. “You guys okay?”

Regret seared through Tater, and he shrugged, unwilling to discuss the incident when it was still so fresh. “We argue. He leave.”

Pausing in the midst of opening the cupboards to retrieve a glass, Snowy turned to Tater with a frown creasing forehead. “Seriously? He left just because of an argument? That seems a little bit . . . I don’t know, high-maintenance for him.” 

Increasingly uncomfortable with the topic, Tater didn’t meet Snowy’s eyes, instead extending a hand to Addy, and she eagerly trotted toward him, lured over by the unspoken promise of ear scritches. 

“Was bad,” he said after a moment, but didn’t elaborate. It was difficult to put into words just how much Kent’s silence—and then abrupt departure—had disturbed him. 

“Hm.” Snowy appeared to catch onto his reluctance and took a seat across from him, closing his eyes in appreciation as he swallowed his first sip of coffee. 

As he did, Tater noticed the dark circles under his eyes and the lines on his face, the sharp angles that seemed to just out more than usual, and wondered about their connection to Snowy’s unusually subdued demeanor. 

“You be okay?” he asked impulsively. 

He’d been dreading visits from his friends because he hadn’t wanted to go through the charade of pretending to be happy, but now he realized that Snowy looked just as dejected as he’d been feeling for the better part of two weeks.

Snowy quirked an eyebrow at him, setting down his glass. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” He nodded at Tater’s knee. “How’s that doing, by the way?”

“I ask first,” Tater said stubbornly. “You tell, then I tell.”

Snowy snorted. “You’ll show me yours if I show you mine, huh?” But then any hint of amusement faded as he looked down at the tabletop, one hand idly reaching for his wedding ring, which he wore looped on a chain around his neck during the season. It was odd, Tater noted, that he hadn’t begun wearing it on his finger again.

“It’s just me and Beth,” Snowy said after a moment. “We’re coming up on our first-year anniversary, and things just aren’t . . . we’re just having some problems, and all this attention from the Cup win isn’t helping.” He offered a half-hearted shrug. “But what can you do? Anyway, that’s why I haven’t stopped in sooner to check on you. Didn’t mean to forget about you.”

“Is okay,” Tater said automatically, trying to comprehend the details Snowy had just revealed.

Strange as it was, the admission was a relief to Tater, a reminder that he and Kent weren’t the only couple out there who argued, who had moments where they struggled to connect with each other. But that still didn’t point him toward any resolution, any way to either drag himself out of his depression or win Kent back.

“So, what will you do?” he asked Snowy a tad desperately.

“Nothing to do but try again,” Snowy said simply. “I get the feeling that her expectations for life as a WAG didn’t really mesh with reality. So, I guess that this summer, we’re gonna have to create a new reality and figure out what to do from this point on.” 

When Snowy spoke of his problems, he sounded so rational, so logical, like it was all so easy. Tater longed to be able to analyze his problems that same way, without emotion and passion to blind him and prevent him from locating a solution.

Maybe he required Snowy’s help on this one, then.

“I be arguing with Kent,” he confessed to Snowy, unable to escape a sharp stab of shame as his harsh remarks to his boyfriend flooded back to him. “Tell him that he not good boyfriend. That with me, Bitty took better care.”

Snowy sat up straight in his chair. “You didn’t,” he breathed. “Seriously, you didn’t—” but he spotted the guilt on Tater’s face, and let out a long, low whistle. “Good God, dude. If you were married, that’d be grounds for divorce. Why’d you say that to him?”

Fresh guilt churned in Tater’s stomach, and he shrugged uncomfortably, leaning back in his chair. Kent hadn’t been entirely deserving of his anger and frustration, but secluded away for recovery like Tater was, he’d been the only available target for his disappointment and increasing bitterness.

“Hard to say,” he replied haltingly. “Could be . . . he not be talking to me.” It felt almost embarrassing to admit, but he wanted to tell someone the truth. “About injury. Not much of anything.” He raised his eyes to meet Snowy’s. “Felt like he wasn’t here at all.” 

“Were you talking to him?” Snowy asked pointedly.

At first, Tater opened his mouth to retort that yes, of course he had been, but then he found himself swallowing the words as he realized everything he hadn’t mentioned to Kent: his worry about his knee, his fears for his future, his disappointment and frustration at being forced to stay at home while his team pushed through to the finals, and then his increasing feelings of isolation from his own teammates throughout the victory celebrations. 

Several moments of silence ensued as it occurred to Tater that he’d been waiting for Kent to reach out and ask about all of those topics without ever volunteering the slightest bit of information about them himself.

“Exactly,” Snowy said to Tater’s silence. “Take it from a guy who’s been married for almost one whole year. You need to talk about what’s bothering you. And if you don’t want to talk, there’s gotta be a reason for it. Like, I spend at least a third of my time away from Beth. You probably spend at least seventy-five percent of your time away from Kent. That’s too little time together to waste it being upset with each other.”

A stab of desperation pierced through Tater, and he could sense his muscles tightening as he grew defensive on reflex. Of course, he didn’t want to be upset or push Kent away—but when it seemed like he was losing all control over his life, it was far more easily said than done to keep an even temper.

Snowy seemed to pick up on his internal conflict and punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Hey, listen, I’m no relationship guru. And I’m probably just talking out of my ass. But if Kent is going to be out of the house for a few days, then you might as well take the time to figure out where you stand on this, huh?”

Tater nodded, swallowing, relieved at being given an alternative. He knew he needed to think—he just didn’t know how to think at the moment.

“Could work,” he said, and then quickly changed the subject. “Saw angry PR email. What team be doing to be banned from two whole bars?”

The question brought Snowy to throw his head back and laugh, some of the weariness fading from his face as it was replaced by his typical smile. 

“Wait till I tell you,” he began, and then launched into a long story about the antics of Poots and Ziggy.

A few hours later, Snowy left, but not before making plans to drive Tater to his next doctor’s appointment and promising to swing by for a movie night once his parents were out of town. And while for the first few minutes after he’d gone, Tater was amazed by how much his mood improved with the visit, his spirits quickly plummeted when he was struck by an acute sense of emptiness now that he was alone in the house again.

When Kent was home, the house seemed like it was brimming with energy, with sunlight spilling throughout each room and laughter and an offhand joke never far away. The atmosphere was one of relaxation and ease, a place where Tater never had to worry about a reporter twisting his words or accidentally insulting someone in the Falcs’ organization thanks to his limited English. The house had been peaceful, an escape from the constant grind of League life.

But Kent wasn’t here anymore, and he’d walked away because of Tater, leaving the house just a depressing reminder of what his life had been before the championships. And that knowledge left Tater feeling lower than the growing gap between himself and Kent ever had.


	3. Chapter 3

_If you don’t want to talk, there’s gotta be a reason for it._ Snowy’s words plagued Tater throughout the rest of the day and into the next morning. It was all he could think of, even as he ordered more groceries online, arranged for a temporary driver, and scheduled a dog-walker to stop by to take Addy out in the mornings and evenings. 

And despite the temptation to collapse back into the couch cushions and lose himself in another crime drama, Tater decided to take Snowy’s words to heart.

 _Why don’t I want to talk to Kenny?_ he wondered, holding a couch pillow in his hands and absently twisting the corner. _He wanted to help me. He came here as soon as his management allowed him to be. He’s been taking care of me._

After all, how many people on the planet could attest that NHL legend Kent Parson cooked their meals and distributed their medication when they weren’t able to do it for themselves? Just Tater and anyone from the past or present Aces roster who’d ever been injured, really. 

But that was just it, Tater realized, dropping the pillow to tug at his hair as a revelation dawned. He didn’t want NHL legend Kent Parson taking care of him. He didn’t want to be the injured, pitiable boyfriend who required patience and TLC and day and night aid. 

He’d wanted to be—well, not a NHL legend, not someone who could match Kent, get real—but someone who could be _worthy_ of Kent. It was his greatest wish to show that he also had talent, that Kent wasn’t dating some selfish, thuggish Russian below his level. 

More than anything in the world, Tater had wanted to win the Cup. At first, back when he was a rookie, it was for his father, a six-time Soviet League champion, to carry on his family legacy into the NHL. But during his first few years, the urge transformed into personal ambition, a seething desire to put those snobby Canadians commentators in their place and prove that he was more than the talentless goon they’d branded him as since his debut game. He wanted to prove to them that he was an important part of his team, an asset to their Cup run.

And then Kent swept onto the horizon, all devilish smiles and cute freckles, rapidly rising through player rankings year after year, with a point streak that put him above Crosby and below only Lemieux and Gretzky. And despite the many Canadian commentators who resented the attention Kent received, who mourned the good True North boys who could benefit from it instead, even they didn’t contend that Kent was beyond a doubt the best player of the modern era. 

Tater had never wanted to be the best. But he had wanted it to be known that he truly deserved Kent Parson, even if Tater could never inspire the renown that Kent had, of a NHL legend, Real American Hero, Olympic gold medalist, and a US champion hockey player who’d literally been born on the Fourth of July and was hailed as a hero for it.

But Tater had failed. Luck hadn’t been on his side, his team had won the Cup without him, and now he might never have another chance to prove himself to Kent. He might never even be able to lace up for another game in his life, and the thought had his heart clenching in fear and desperation.

And it was difficult to confess any one of those insecurities to Kent when Tater wanted so desperately to have been able to quash them himself. He’d wanted to be able to be there with his team and heft the Cup and have Kent rush down to the ice and kiss him where the whole world could see. He’d wanted to spend his Cup day with Kent and spam both their social media accounts with photos as evidence that he’d won, that he was worthy of Kent’s attention. At the very least, he’d wanted to be able to go to his check-up and have the doctor tell him he’d be able to be back on the team in the fall.

The rest of the hockey world was dubious about their relationship in general (“What could a champion like Parson want with a goon like Markov? Er, Mashkov?”). Tater didn’t even want to think about what they’d say if he had to end his career prematurely.

Or what Kent would have to say, if he were being honest. He’d tried not to think about it, but the deepest, most secretive part of him idly wondered in spare moments if Kent would want an NHL washout as a boyfriend.

After all, Kent was the Real American Hero with an action figure to prove it. Tater? Tater was just yet another enigmatic Russian.

* * *

Later that day, Bitty stopped in for a quick visit, but mostly to drop off a mountain of baked goods, more than Tater could ever eat on his own, even during the season.

“I’ve been bakin’ up a storm,” he confessed, squeezing yet another carefully labelled pie container into Tater’s freezer. “This trip to Montreal has me as jumpy as a cat on hot bricks.”

Tater tilted his head quizzically. “You be meeting Jack’s parents before, yes? Why upset now?”

Several seconds passed as Bitty hesitated, started to say something, and then seemed to choose something else as he busied himself with rearranging the freezer’s contents.

“It’s nothing against Jack’s parents, of course,” he hemmed. “And they’re both very polite to me. But with Bob being a scout for the Habs, he and Jack are always on about hockey, and Alicia, well . . . she’s a career woman. We don’t have all that much in common.” He laughed nervously. “I talk pie, she talks about the trials of juggling interviews for three blockbuster hits in one year.”

“But they be nice?” Tater persisted. When Kent had officially introduced him to Bob and Alicia as his boyfriend, they’d both seemed charming and affable. Now Tater wondered if he’d been too starstruck by the pair of them to detect their true thoughts on his relationship with Kent.

“They’re . . . polite,” Bitty said slowly, seeming to select his words very carefully. “But I just get the notion that . . . well, they sure do talk about Kent a whole lot. With Bob, it’s kind of expected, since his job’s in hockey and Kent’s the top player in the League, but Alicia is always dropping him into conversation. Asking Jack how he’s been, letting him know they took Kent out to dinner the last time he was there for a game, and so on.” A small, defeated-sounding sigh escaped Bitty, and he shot Tater a tired smile as he closed the refrigerator. “So, listenin’ to that isn’t going to be my favorite part of the weekend. And I tried to talk to Jack about it, but he got madder than a wet hen, so I just hush up about it now.”

“Be texting me,” Tater said firmly, grateful to have the opportunity to be useful to someone at long last. “If you be needing talk.” He wanted to repay Bitty for letting him camp out on his couch those first few days after his injury.

“Thanks, hon,” Bitty said, setting a piece of peach cobbler topped with vanilla ice cream in front of Tater. “I’ll be sure to do just that.”

They exchanged goodbyes, with Bitty seeing himself out the door, and Tater was left wondering about what Bob and Alicia’s behavior could mean as he finished his snack.

If they didn’t think that Tater was good enough to be Kent’s boyfriend, then they had that in common, at least, Tater mused, jabbing a bite of pie moodily with his fork, a cloud of despair beginning to gather over him. And hell, it wasn’t as if everybody in the hockey world hadn’t questioned Kent’s choice of him at least once, so it wasn’t even a particularly unpopular opinion. 

But then it occurred to Tater that it didn’t seem to have anything to do with him specifically, and he sat there, blinking, the black cloud lifting. After all, if Bob and Alicia preferred Kent to Bitty as far as Jack’s romances were concerned, that meant they didn’t think Bitty was good enough for Jack, either.

And none of these comparisons, no one’s thoughts on if Tater was good enough for Kent or not, from Bad Bob to the hockey press to the tabloids, had stopped Kent from introducing Tater as his boyfriend to Bob and Alicia in the first place.

Kent truly didn’t care, Tater realized. Kent didn’t care if he had a Cup, Kent didn’t care that he couldn’t match his point streak, he didn’t care that he was getting all kinds of endorsement deals and Tater wasn’t. He just—he wanted Tater.

For a moment, euphoria bloomed with Tater at the newfound understanding. But then it rapidly withered, and he returned to morosely picking at his pie.

If only he’d been able to grasp this concept when Kent had still been around. 

After a few more minutes of moping, Tater noticed that the ice cream had been left out on the countertop when Bitty had been stacking items in the freezer. Purely out of habit, he hauled himself to his feet, supporting his weight heavily on his cane, and limped over to shove it back inside.

Opening up the freezer, Tater found several more containers of frozen food. He was about to simply drop the ice cream on top and close the door so he could return to the couch, but then he noticed that the labels on top weren’t written in Bitty’s neatly looping cursive but a hasty, slanted scrawl that looked as if it had been jotted down in record time. 

Kent’s handwriting. 

The containers were each carefully labelled, each one loaded with a meal that was practical rather than fancy, with both meat and vegetables, intended to be easily heated and then consumed. And while they were basic enough that they should have paled in comparison to the dishes Bitty had so painstakingly formulated, Tater found that it was the opposite. Each one was a meal Kent had devised specifically to feed rookies or teammates who didn’t know the first thing about feeding themselves, so he’d added his own twist on each recipe. “Shepherd's protein pack” was a spin on shepherd’s pie but with the addition of quinoa and extra green vegetables, and one of his own creations. “Carb-blast burritos,” invented for perpetually hungry rookies and loaded with every imaginable healthy high-carb and high-protein ingredient, was another. 

Kent really and truly cared for him, Tater realized, grasping one of the containers in his hand, ignoring the freezer’s chill. He couldn’t even remember when Kent would have had the free time to cook each one of these meals and store them away without Tater noticing, but he had, all to make sure Tater would have something to eat when he was stuck at meetings and couldn’t make dinner or would be home too late for takeout. 

And now, standing in the kitchen, faced with unmistakable evidence of how much his boyfriend cared for him, even if he didn’t know quite how to talk about the topics that were troubling them both, Tater desperately wished he could talk to Kent again. That he could thank him, could rush to him and tell him that he knew that Kent cared for him beyond words, that he could fall asleep knowing Kent was beside him and wake up to see the sunlight streaming onto his face, illuminating each one of his freckles.

He wanted him back, Tater realized with a lump growing in his throat. He wanted Kenny back in this house, even if it was painful, even if his career was at its end. He wanted his _l’vionachik,_ the person who fought battles and possums for each one of his teammates and didn’t mind that he had to drop everything and fly across the country to help Tater fight his as well.

No, Tater hadn’t fought for him when he needed, he could admit that much. When things had started to go wrong between them, instead of apologizing, instead of asking Kent to stay, he’d been content to allow Kent to depart without expressing any kind of regret. He’d been wrong to let Kent walk away, wrong to let him think Tater preferred Bitty, when the truth was that Tater simply had been allowing his insecurities to eat away at him. 

But he could admit that. He could admit to Kent that he’d been wrong, and ask for a second chance.

* * *

The phone in Tater’s hand seemed heavier than ever before as he listened to one ring after another with bated breath. By five rings, his heart was sinking at the prospect of simply leaving a voicemail instead of pouring his heart out like he ached to do. But then Kent picked up.

“Tater?” he asked, alarm evident in his voice. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Am fine,” Tater reassured him, relieved that he’d reached Kent at last. “Nothing be wrong. I be fine, knee be fine, Addy be fine,” he added, patting the pit bull on the head as she gave him a big doggy smile.

“But _we_ not be fine,” he added more seriously. “We should be talking. Can you be coming soon?”

There was a long pause from Kent, and for a moment, Tater was sure Kent would brush him off, would inform him that he was too busy with his meetings and promotions, that Tater would have to wait.

But then Kent spoke. “I can be back in Providence around dinnertime, if that’s okay?” he asked tentatively. “I’ve been in Boston, hanging out with Chara.”

In that moment, Tater realized with a rush of shame that he’d been so focused on his own problems that he’d never even questioned where Kent had gone off to. Even more shame washed over him as he remembered Kent once offhandedly commenting that he had often run off to lick his wounds amongst the Bruins after fights with Jack at Samwell. 

Still, Tater couldn’t waste anymore time putting himself down, not when now had to be about building himself and Kent back up. 

“I be loving that,” he said wholeheartedly. “I just . . . Kenny, I be wanting to see you,” he said, feeling like an utter fool for ever letting Kent think otherwise.

“I want to see you, too,” Kent replied softly, the words so soft and tender they almost had Tater shivering. “I’ll stop and get dinner for us on the way. How about that Ethiopian place you like?”

Relief flooded Tater, and he was so grateful that Kent still wanted him, that he didn’t hold a grudge, that he could have cried, but he swallowed it down.

“My Kenny,” he rasped out instead, the words coming out clumsy and thick but happy all the same. “Always taking such good care.”

Another pause passed before Kent replied, but there was nothing but sincerity in his tone.

“My Aloysha,” he replied gently. “Always deserving all the care that me or anyone else could give.”

* * *

That night, Kent walked in the door just after the evening dog-walker had returned with Addy, and he tipped her generously even before he set the numerous bags of Ethiopian food on the table. 

“I’m fucking starved,” he admitted as he handed Tater his containers of lentil sambusa and yetibs fifir. “There’s only so many days in a row you can eat those boring coldcut sandwiches these executive-types like and not get sick of them. And the lettuce and tomatoes are always so fucking cold from waiting in the fridge.” 

“You be very nice to do this for me,” Tater said, and after battling uncertainty for a moment, leaned in to brush his lips against Kent’s cheek. 

His venture was rewarded when Kent turned his face to catch Tater’s lips instead, openly his mouth slightly to grasp them in the softest kiss.

Heart in his throat and a pleasant warmth in his gut, Tater tugged Kent over to the couch, determined to find a way for them to sit so Kenny could cuddle up against him, even with his injury. Eventually, he settled on sitting with both legs up and Kent perched on the edge of the couch to lean into his chest. It maybe wasn’t the most comfortable position, but Tater was just glad to have the closeness, to feel the warmth from Kenny’s back pressing against him. Besides, this way he could trail his fingers down Kent’s spine and see him shudder and feel him burrow closer. 

For the first several minutes, neither of them spoke, instead digging into their meals in an unspoken agreement to let their looming discussion discourage their appetites. But when they’d both finished and set the remainders of their meal on the coffee table, Tater knew there couldn’t be any more delay.

“I’m be sorry,” he said, aiming to put as much sincerity as possible into his voice. “When I last see you, I say terrible things. I’m not be understanding then, but I think now I do.”

Kent had been in the midst of returning to his seat on the couch, and at Tater’s admission, he halted briefly, but then he sat down again, this time face to face with Tater.

“I’m sorry, too,” he replied with a wan smile. “I thought . . . I thought I was doing enough, but I wasn’t, and that hurt you.”

Stunned by the unanticipated apology, Tater was momentarily flabbergasted, but then he collected himself enough to respond, shaking his head adamantly. 

“You be not needing sorry,” he told Kent firmly. “I be grumpy, I not talk, I be sad all the time, and I blame you. Not fair. Not until you left that I figure I’m be needing to tell you I want to talk.”

A strange kind of relief descended onto Kent’s face, and he let out a long breath that seemed like he hadn’t meant to hold in.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he admitted quietly, dropping his gaze to stare down at his hands. “I knew you were hurting, but I wasn’t sure if you wanted to talk or not. And I’m not good at trying to figure that out. I fought with Jack so many times because I wanted him to talk to me about his OD, but he didn’t. So when I got here, I just decided to treat you like I’d treat one of my teammates who’d been hurt. I didn’t want to crowd you or push you away by making you talk. But when that wasn’t enough, I didn’t know—” his face crumbled. “I was ruining things between us, and I didn’t know—” 

“You not being ruining anything,” Tater said fiercely, pulling Kent close and holding him tightly. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the sunny scent of his hair and the signature sharp citrus cologne, and wondering how he could have ever made him feel unwanted. “You be doing best. I just not talk. I—” he felt his voice falter at the anxiety of revealing the truth, but then he forged onward. “I’m be scared of losing hockey,” he confessed. “Scared of not playing again, not being on team. Scared of losing _you._ Wanted to be good enough for you, wanted to bring you the Cup so you could _know._ Now—” he choked, tears springing to his eyes with sheer frustration. “Now, I’m not doing that.”

Several seconds passed as Kent stared blankly at him, seeming as if he was struggling to register his words. “ ‘Good enough for me’?” he repeated blankly. “You don’t think you’re good enough for me?” 

The shock in his voice was so apparent that Tater paused momentarily, suddenly uncertain of himself. 

“Yes?” he offered hesitantly. “Top in League. Been for years? You must be knowing.”

“Yeah, but—I mean, you have an Olympic champion mother, a hockey champion father, and a sister in the Russian National Ballet,” Kent said in disbelief. “And I love my sister, but she’s the first person in my family to go to college, my mom loves the needle more than either of us, and my dad fucked off completely before I turned five and could be dead in a ditch somewhere for all know.”

“But you be Kent Parson!” Tater insisted, trying to help Kent see his point of view. “Three-time Cup winner, Aces’ captain, name only below Gretzky and Lemieux in the records, NHL awards practically _belong_ to you—”

Kent pressed a light hand over his mouth. “I’m Kent Parson to everyone else,” he corrected once Tater stopped trying to talk. “But I’m not with you to be a hockey champion, you know? And I like it, Alyosha. I like it that I don’t have to be. I like just being your _l’vionachik_.”

A slow, steady warmth unfurled in Tater’s chest, and he cupped Kent’s cheek with a large, scarred hand, a burst of excitement zipping through him as Kent reflexively leaned into his touch. 

“You are,” he told him emphatically, his voice thick with emotion. “My _l’vionachik._ Be loving you so much, Kenny. So stupid, to have you not think that.”

Kent leaned in to nuzzle his neck, his hot breath tickling his skin as he spoke. “You’re not stupid. Just—hurt, maybe.” His arm wrapped around Tater’s shoulders to squeeze them protectively, but he was still careful to put any of his weight onto him. “But I’m here, Alyosha. I’m _here_ for you, I promise. I’m not going away again.” 

The burden he’d been carrying miraculously evaporated at Kent’s assurance, and his heart soared as a number of his fears were vanquished. Tater grinned at him, feeling like the luckiest man in the world to have Kent Parson promising that, and gently tugged up Kent’s face to kiss him on one cheek and then the other. 

“I’m believe you, Kenny,” he said, and he meant it.

* * *

That night, Kent helped him get ready for bed as he’d always done, removing the brace, and then dimming the lights once Tater was lying down before settling in to join him.

This time, though, Kent didn’t allow the distance to stretch out between them. As Tater felt the mattress dip with Kent’s weight, there was the rustle of sheets, the rush of cool air as the light blankets were drawn back, and then the softest press of a pair of lips against his injured knee.

The sudden touch brought Tater to gasp and jerk. “Kenny?” 

“I’m not hurting you, am I?” Kent asked lowly. “Tell me if I am.”

While he would have expected it, the sensation hadn’t included any pain—if anything, it had come close to being ticklish.

“Not hurt,” Tater reassured him. “Just surprised. But good surprise.”

“Well, then.” Kent sounded pleased. “I can keep going.” 

He continued to kiss all around Tater’s knee, careful not to add any pressure, just cover every sliver of skin with the lightest brush of his lips and stroke of his fingertips. Tater couldn’t help but shiver in response to each one before he adjusted and relaxed into the feeling.

Exhausted by the events of the past few days, he found himself drifting off to sleep beneath Kent’s careful touches, still the most gentle and precise he could possibly be, even with only the pale moonlight to guide him.

* * *

**Epilogue**

Even with Tater’s injury, they managed to make it to the beach that summer. It wasn’t any place exotic, but it was still a gorgeous area on Cape Cod, with golden sand and a green-blue sea that looked as smooth as glass.

They rented a private beach for the day, complete with a cabana for shade, two cushioned lounge chairs, and a sleek metal cooler packed with snacks and cocktails. After helping Tater to his chair, Kent lugged the Cup over from where it had been strapped to the back of the golf cart and set it in the middle of the cabana. 

“I know you were talking about Bora Bora, babe,” Kent said as he filled its bowl to the brim with sand, irreverent as always. “But let’s face it, we never would have been able to bring the Cup there. This is better.”

“Anywhere with you be better,” Tater said stoutly, toasting Kent with his mimosa.

Kent shot him a grin as he dusted off the excess sand from the top of the Cup and then turned to rummage through his Tom Ford duffel bag. Within a few seconds, he withdrew a small, velvet-covered box.

“I have a surprise for you,” Kent said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, almost shy. He offered Tater the box without flair. “Open it.”

Curious, Tater put down his drink and accepted the box. It was roughly about the standard size for a necklace, like the one where his mother kept her evening pearls, but deeper than was typical. Not knowing what to expect, he propped open the lid to find two action figures, neither more than four inches in height.

The first was Kent in his Team USA jersey, no doubt the final version of his toy self that would be flying off the shelves later that year. Tater was amused to see that the Hasbro designers had included Kent’s duo of gold medals around the figure’s neck, with his chosen weapon apparently being a razor-tipped hockey stick. 

But the second figure left Tater speechless. It was of a brown-haired player in a red jersey painted with the coat of arms from the Russian national team. At first, Tater tilted his head, puzzled, but then realization dawned on him. 

“It be me?” he asked Kent, stunned. “But how?”

“I commissioned it as a custom figure from Hasbro,” Kent explained, not looking at Tater directly. “They actually did have a line of Soviet solider action figures at one time called the Oktober Guard. I guess now you can be the Oktober Defenseman.” He shrugged a touch sheepishly. “I figured that if I were going to have my own Olympic figurine, you should have one, too. Oh, and Kit’s figure is still in development, or else I would have gotten you that one, too.”

Tater blinked back the moisture swelling in his eye,. “Is wonderful,” he told Kent huskily, almost too touched by his boyfriend’s thoughtfulness to speak. “And you wonderful boyfriend.”

Kent laughed, his self-consciousness visibly draining away. “Tell me more,” he purred playfully, sidling onto Tater’s lounge chair to steal a kiss. 

Tater obliged, pulling Kent closer to rest against him. His knee twinged with the motion, but only faintly—and that was even without the help of painkillers.

He was on the mend. His doctors were optimistic. And he had a boyfriend who would stay with him no matter what the outcome.

“Should get picture,” he suggested, struck by that old urge to want to show off where Kent was concerned. But this time, it wasn’t to prove that he was worthy of Kent, that it deserved him—no, it was to show the world what an amazing boyfriend he had. “Kent ‘Powerhouse’ Parson with the Oktober Defenseman.”

Kent scoffed at him. “Are you trying to add Russia to the list of countries who boycott me?”

 _“Rossiya_ love you because Don Cherry hate you,” Tater informed him with a grin. “Just like he hates all of us.” 

“Well, Russia might love me, but there’s only one Russian who I’m in love with,” Kent said easily, and Tater almost spat out his sip of mimosa, but swallowed and then pulled Kent closer.

“Glad to be hearing so, _l’vionachik,”_ he murmured, running his hands over Kent’s bare chest and arms and any other place he could reach, an irrepressible swell of happiness rising within him. “I’m be loving you back, you know.”

He expected Kent to give one his trademark smartass responses, and was surprised but charmed when Kent just ducked his head shyly, gave him a quick kiss, and then quickly changed the subject. 

“I’m going to grab a strawberry daiquiri,” Kent said, clambering off the lounge chair. “You want a refill?”

“Am good,” Tater told him, smiling at his boyfriend’s uncharacteristic bashfulness, before drawing up the camera on his phone and snapping a few shots, and then scrolling through to select the best one. 

Even though Tater didn’t use his Instagram as often as Kent did his, it _was_ his Cup day, so he decided to post the photo of his and Kent’s actions figures side by side in the sand.

 _Powerhouse Parson and Oktober Defenseman together again,_ he tapped out as the caption, before hitting the post button.

He set down his phone just as Kent rejoined him on his chair, and this time, Tater maneuvered Kent to be partially settled in his lap, his wide, calloused hands seeming even larger than usual when placed on Kent’s slim hips. Beforehand, he’d always taken it for granted, but now it was a definite thrill to know he was strong enough again to let Kent rest against him, and it filled him with new hope.

 _Together,_ he thought to himself, his arms curling around Kent’s waist and resting there, the previous distance between himself and Kent now just barely a memory. _Always together._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Please let me know if you have any thoughts or comments, and I'm always into concrit, so feel free to leave some!
> 
> Also, please share any other random franchises in addition to GI Joe and Harley-Davidson that you think should feature Kent in their ad campaign.


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